Regretfulness
by the house of the rising sun
Summary: Set after the events of the game, Head of Homicide Bekowsky and Assistant D.A Kelso foray vaguely into their feelings about Cole Phelps' death. No hurt/comfort, no slash, no past Kelso/Phelps or future Kelso/Bekowsky, only mutual regret at the loss of a man who, in retrospect, perhaps did not deserve the death he got. Rated for language and themes.


**Disclaimer: I don't own _LA_** Noire.

* * *

"It's a dirty city. You wade in with high boots, but you still don't come out clean."

"Got that right."

"What'll happen to Elsa?"

"Dunno."

"Maybe I should-"

"Don't get ahead of yourself, now."

"Sure, sure."

"Girl like that has trouble following her like a puppy dog."

"I said alright, didn't I? Jesus, Bekowsky, it's like dealing with my damn mother."

"S'cuse me for trying to help you."

They were quiet with one another for awhile. Bekowsky ate with a dark eye cast askance-as though the sandwich gripped mannishly in his left hand was particularly suspicious.

"What'd the old lady make you?"

"Egg salad. And she's not my old lady-sayin' that only gives her ideas." Kelso laughed thinly. The sound seemed to reverberate against the concrete walls of the District Attorney's office like the sound of rushing water. Bekowsky sipped at watery coffee in a paper cup.

"Rusty retired, I hear."

"Yeah. I got a new guy now. Some kid fresh out of traffic. What a mess."

"What's he like?"

Bekowsky put what was left of the sandwich in its wrappings.

"Young guy. Pretty okay. Knight on a white horse-the usual."

"Even in L.A. Who'd have thunk." Kelso stretched in his chair and reached for a tin cigarette case on the desk. Bekowsky fumbled in his clothes-still a garish dresser, as ever he was-for a lighter. For a moment, as the one lit the cigarette of the other, they exchanged glances-blue and brown in what could've easily been mistaken for a fight to the death. Kelso looked away first.

"I...I hear you're the favorite for captaincy next year, Bekowsky."

"Can I ask you something, Jack?"

"There's no law against it."

"You ever miss Cole?"

There was no straight answer, and too, no _correct_ answer to the question.

"Some."

Any rage he'd ever felt brewing towards Phelps in his gut was nothing compared to the guilt that washed him like a wave-a dank wave of sewage that spattered him with piss and shit that couldn't wash away. The problem of Elsa-a woman he knew he could love, but could never bring himself to encroach upon. The kind of woman who was worth a million dollars, and was the favorite of every two-bit cop and criminal in Los Angeles. And then there was the delicious, disgusting little bit of irony that giggled and taunted with pleasure. He couldn't count how many times he'd wished he'd killed Phelps in Okinawa. Now that he was dead, he bitterly regretted praying to the Archangel Michael to smite him-though he supposed, since he had ceased to attend services altogether, the angel surely wouldn't take his requests seriously.

"Can I ask you something else?"

"I can see why they made you head detective."

Bekowsky chewed his lower lip-he did it on poker night, and when he did, Kelso always managed to beat him. He wondered if Bekowsky ever played poker with Phelps.

"How long's it been since you slept?"

Kelso felt exhaustion resonate and tug at him the moment the detective mentioned sleep. To be honest, he wasn't sure. He wasn't really keeping count. Most days he'd catch a few hours in his car by the D.A's office, or parked a few houses down from where Phelps and his family used to live. But more often than not, the bed at home was left un slept in, and the scotch heavily depleted. Sometimes, when he was very drunk, Kelso managed what most could charitably call a nap. But the short stints of time when his eyes briefly fluttered closed were plagued with nightmares-Sugar Loaf and Elsa; Phelps holding her hand and blowing his brains out in the hospital that became a graveyard-Marie, who was always underfed and unwashed, throwing her clothing into a lake and diving in...

Kelso would wake from these dreams soaked in sweat and crying, and no amount of scotch or cigarettes, or women with more beauty than morals would soothe the terror.

"It's been awhile."

"Yeah, me too."


End file.
